Poem
Ángela García
Ales Stenar
I dreamt of sea waterroaring under the gorge.
Up there on the esplanade,
the same flock of stones
lulls century after century,
its windy entrails
in a consonantless language.
I knew I was in the place lodging
the endless succession
of those who come to assemble
and always depart again.
Stones or bones driven into the ground
survey the night inside.
Constantly alert
aligned in oval shapes like attentive eyes,
they survey the night above.
They breathe remotely,
The springtime moss
has softened the brown hardness.
However, the sun at dusk
gives them a silex sharpness.
Legend wants them funereal
but they are the fruit of durable things.
They do their dervish dance
on the obstinacy of grass.
What seems meek in them
is really a savage war against the ephemeral.
© Translation: 2008, Nicolás Suescún
Ales Stenar
Ales Stenar
Soñé con el agua del marbramando bajo la barranca.
Arriba en la explanada,
el mismo rebaño de piedras,
arrulla siglo tras siglo
sus entrañas de viento
en una lengua sin consonantes.
Me supe en el lugar que aloja
el suceso sin término
de los que llegan para congregarse
y de nuevo parten siempre.
Piedras o huesos en tierra clavados
otean la noche dentro.
En alerta constante,
alineados en óvalo como un ojo avizor,
otean la noche encima.
De lo remoto toman su aliento.
El musgo de la primavera
ha suavizado la dureza parda.
El sol del atardecer empero
les da filo de sílex.
La leyenda las quiere fúnebres
más son frutos de lo durable:
Hacen su danza de derviches
sobre la obstinación de la hierba.
Lo que parece mansedumbre
Es feroz guerra contra lo efímero.
© 2004, Ángela García
Publisher: First published on PIW,
Publisher: First published on PIW,
Poems
Poems of Ángela García
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Ales Stenar
I dreamt of sea waterroaring under the gorge.
Up there on the esplanade,
the same flock of stones
lulls century after century,
its windy entrails
in a consonantless language.
I knew I was in the place lodging
the endless succession
of those who come to assemble
and always depart again.
Stones or bones driven into the ground
survey the night inside.
Constantly alert
aligned in oval shapes like attentive eyes,
they survey the night above.
They breathe remotely,
The springtime moss
has softened the brown hardness.
However, the sun at dusk
gives them a silex sharpness.
Legend wants them funereal
but they are the fruit of durable things.
They do their dervish dance
on the obstinacy of grass.
What seems meek in them
is really a savage war against the ephemeral.
© 2008, Nicolás Suescún
Ales Stenar
I dreamt of sea waterroaring under the gorge.
Up there on the esplanade,
the same flock of stones
lulls century after century,
its windy entrails
in a consonantless language.
I knew I was in the place lodging
the endless succession
of those who come to assemble
and always depart again.
Stones or bones driven into the ground
survey the night inside.
Constantly alert
aligned in oval shapes like attentive eyes,
they survey the night above.
They breathe remotely,
The springtime moss
has softened the brown hardness.
However, the sun at dusk
gives them a silex sharpness.
Legend wants them funereal
but they are the fruit of durable things.
They do their dervish dance
on the obstinacy of grass.
What seems meek in them
is really a savage war against the ephemeral.
© 2008, Nicolás Suescún
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